Fifteen Minutes
by Jelsemium
Summary: A group of short stories based in the Numb3rsverse. Each chapter is inspired by a different word or phrase. The main connection is that each of them was written, or supposed to be written, in fifteen minutes or less.
1. Bed Check for Home

Fifteen Minutes

Over at we've started yet another challenge. The point is to take the prompt word, which changes every Sunday, and base a story on it. The time limit is, as you've already guessed, fifteen minutes.

Since these stories are short, I've decided to lump them together, each story being a separate chapter.

I wrote this chapter in less than fifteen minutes, because I was trying to keep to the one hundred word limit. Later chapters will be longer.

Bed Check  
100 words  
8 Minutes

Don took a deep breath and entered his brother's Craftsman home.

He wanted to talk to his family. Some conversation that didn't involve violence.

However, it was 2 AM and he expected everybody to be in bed. So he satisfied himself with walking upstairs as silently as a ghost.

Don turned off the television that his father had fallen asleep watching.

He paused outside Charlie's room when he recognized Amita's perfume.

He decided to not go in there. He headed for his own room, only to find his bed occupied by Charlie.

He laughed silently. "Buddy, you are so busted."


	2. Office Space

O is for Office Space

Author: Jelsemium

Rating: K

Challenges: The 2007 Summer Alphabet Fiction Challenge (at Note: This was originally started for the 15 minute challenge "office," however, I went way over 15 minutes because I didn't like how the first draft came out.

Using the living room as an office was one of the few things that Margaret and Charlie ever argued about.

Margaret was used to Alan spreading his work all over the place. It wasn't the clutter that bothered her. It was the chalk dust, which she was afraid might damage her precious antique furniture.

She knew that the situation would drive her crazy if she didn't do something about it.

She walked around the living room, trying to mop up the white powder that covered everything as she tried to figure out an argument that would convince Charlie to move his chalkboards to the garage.

It was an unusual situation for her. Charlie usually complied with her wishes without back talk.

Unlike Don, who would argue about anything, at any time. (Margaret had been so sure he would become a lawyer. Well, him being a baseball player was better than the convicted felon that Mrs. Eng always felt he would become.)

"Charlie, dear, chalk dust is everywhere!" Margaret complained, looking around the living room in despair. "And it can't be healthy for you to inhale that all the time."

Charlie paused in his scribbling with obvious reluctance. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "I can't do these calculations in my head." He shot her an exasperated look. "I'm a freak, not a computer."

Margaret sighed. "Charlie, I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that."

Charlie shrugged and shot a longing look at the arcane expressions on the board.

Margaret suppressed her next sigh. At age sixteen, Don had been looking at girls and cars like that. In fact, that was about the time that Don had got his driver's license and his first serious girlfriend.

Although calling that giggling blonde a serious girlfriend still seemed like an oxymoron to her.

Charlie hadn't shown any interest in girls since Don and his second serious girl friend, Val Eng, had gone to the prom together. (Mrs. Eng had almost had a heart attack over that!)

Charlie shrugged. "Can I get back to work now? I'm really on to something with this convergence theory and I don't want to _completely_ lose my train of thought."

Margaret noticed the emphasis that Charlie placed on 'completely' and sighed inwardly again. Why was the one thing that sixteen year old Charlie and sixteen year old Don had in common HAVE to be the teen age rebellion thing?

Couldn't they have picked something easier, like pancakes?

"I'm just worried about your health," she said. "Can't your write in a notebook?"

Now Charlie sighed. "Notebooks are too restrictive," he said.

"A dry erase board?"

"The fumes aren't healthy, either," Charlie pointed out.

Margaret looked around the living room. "But at least dry erasers don't leave dust all over the furniture."

Charlie looked around. "Would you rather I work in the garage?" he suggested. "The dust won't matter in there."

Margaret was pleased that Charlie had come up with the suggestion. "If you don't mind," she said. "We can fix up half the garage as an office."

"You and Dad won't be able to park in there," Charlie pointed out.

Margaret sighed. "I know. Selling the idea to your father will be quite…" she trailed off.

"Challenging?" Charlie supplied.

"Yes," she looked around her chalk coated living room. "But it will be worth it," she decided.


	3. Something Old, Something New for Bride

Something Old, Something New, Something Borrowed, Something Blue

By Jelsemium

Who does not own the characters and is not trying to make monetary profit.

Word Count: 252

Time for the original story: 15 minutes.

This story has been edited because I thought of a better joke for Millie to use.

Herecomesthebridealldressedinwhite…

Millie was nervous.

At her age, she never expected to get married. But here it was, her wedding day. She smoothed her antique ivory gown that Larry had found in an antique store, thanks to a furniture store owner who had supplied him with much of the furniture for his Victorian.

That was her something old

She looked in the mirror and adjusted her vegetable ivory earrings made from the kernel of the ivory-nut palm. An engagement gift from Megan. They were her something new.

She touched the pearl necklace around her throat. They belonged to Amita's mother, and Amita had lent them for the occasion. Her something borrowed.

She pulled up her skirt and checked to make sure that her sapphire silk garter was firmly in place. Her something blue.

There was a knock on the door.

"Ready?" Charlie asked.

"You're sure about this?" Millie asked.

Charlie grinned. "Isn't that my question?" he asked. "You may be getting in over your head, you know, by marrying a man with two adult sons."

Millie laughed. "I'd worry about _that_ if his sons were adults."

"Ow," Charlie said. He offered his arm anyway and they walked into the Craftsman's yard where Alan was waiting for his bride.

The traditional words came - "Who gives this woman in holy matrimony?"

Millie looked at Charlie and he beamed. "My fellow faculty members and I do," he replied.

The rest of the ceremony blurred past until…

"Alan and Mildrid, I now pronounce you husband and wife."


	4. Mother of Invention

Mother of Invention

The original version of this took fifteen minutes, but I edited it because I can't leave any of my fiction alone when I read it.

Words: 346

* * *

Fifteen year old Don Eppes was in trouble and he knew it.

It was past curfew. His dad wasn't likely to do a bed check, but he couldn't stay outside _all_ night. His dad would probably notice. He would also notice if Don broke a window to get in.

He searched through his pockets. When he'd snuck out to meet Val for a late night snack, he had remembered his wallet, but not his house key.

All he had was his school ID, his ATM card and some money, like he could bribe somebody? Charlie wasn't even home or he would have tapped on his window. The brat would have let him in.

Unfortunately, Charlie and Mom were in San Diego for some math conference.

There was an extra house key in the garage, but he couldn't get into the garage, either.

He fingered his ATM card. He knew it was possible to unlatch some doors with the card, but he didn't think that any of the house doors were that cheap. He tried them. They weren't.

They said that necessity was the mother of invention. Well, desperation must have been the father. Don was just about ready to heave a rock through the window when inspiration finally struck.

He went to the garage. As he suspected, he was able to use his ATM card to pop the door to the garage on only the tenth try.

That gave him access to the house key.

Don turned the key in the door as quietly as he could, which wasn't very. Mom had suggested that he oil the lock, but he hadn't done it. He vowed to take care of it tomorrow.

When he got the door open, he slipped into the front door and held his breath. Nothing. No sound. No tongue lashing. His father remained asleep.

He snuck upstairs, making a mental note to put the garage key away in the morning. He shivered as he stepped into his drafty bedroom and realized, with a barely suppressed groan, that he had left his window open.


	5. Bicycle for Buddy

The Bicycle, for the Buddy Challenge

By Jelsemium

14 Minutes for the original story.

362 Words

B

U

D

D

Y

Don smiled proudly as his first born studied his new red bicycle thoughtfully.

"It's for me?" Robert asked.

"All yours, Buddy," Don assured him. "Happy Birthday!"

"Wow," Robert breathed. He ran his hands over the shiny metal lovingly. He inspected the dark black tires and then stopped.

"What are these for?" he asked.

"They're training wheels," Don informed him.

The five year old pouted. "Training wheels are for babies!" he protested. "I don't want them!"

"You're sure, Buddy?" Don asked.

"Yeah," Robert insisted.

"Okay," Don said. He remembered when Charlie insisted on taking off the training wheels. Don had told him, "It's your funeral." Somehow that didn't seem funny when it was his son instead of his brother.

But he complied with his son's wishes.

Then Robert proudly wheeled his new treasure to the street.

"Robert, now give it a try… slowly," Don said.

"DAD! You can't learn to ride a bike slowly!" Robert protested. "You gotta do it all at once."

Don remembered vividly the bruises and abrasions that resulted when Charlie first rode a two wheeler. He wanted to be sick, but dared not leave Robert alone.

Robin came outside with her video camera and Don wondered when she had become so blood thirsty.

"Okay, Buddy," Don said. "Let's just test the balance, okay?"

Robert nodded.

Don walked a few steps besides the bike as Robert wobbled his way down the street. Robert picked up the pace and Don found himself running to keep up.

"Don!" Robin yelled.

Don took a deep breath and forced himself to stop.

Robert wobbled a few more feet. Then he began to pick up speed. A few moments later, the five year old hit a bump and went down. Fortunately, onto the neighbor's lawn.

"Buddy!" Don cried.

He was at his son's side a few seconds before Robin reached them.

Robert laughed. "That was great! I love my bike! Let's go riding everyday!"

Don laughed and shook his head as he forced his pulse to stop pounding. "Yeah, Buddy. Let's do this everyday." _I'll look good in grey hair_ he told himself.

Robin hugged them both. "I'm so proud of my buddies!" she said.


	6. Opportunity to Set the Record Straight

Title: Opportunity to Set the Record Straight

Author: Jelsemium

Challenge: 15 Minute - Opportunity

Word Count: 159

Time: 7 Minutes

Birth of a Plot Bunny: At the end of "Money for Nothing," Dr. Bradford asked Charlie what he thought of working with Don. Charlie paused after saying "I love…" and I wondered why.

"I just have the feeling that I'm using him," Don finally confessed to his psychologist.

Charlie was astonished. He'd never felt like his big brother was using him!

"What do you feel about that, Charlie?" Bradford asked.

"I love…" Charlie hesitated, because his first impulse was the wrong answer. Not that there was anything wrong with saying that he loved his brother, but that answer, now, might only serve to reinforce Don's guilt over "using" him, by taking advantage of Charlie's feelings.

What to say, then? He once tried to explain to his father that he "got" to work with Don and his team. He'd always felt the opportunity to work with the FBI was a privilege, like being allowed to sit with the cool kids at high school.

This was his big opportunity to fix one thing between him and Don. He had to make sure he didn't blow it.

"I love working with my brother," he said.


	7. Ghost of a Chance

Title: Ghost of a Chance

Challenge: One Word, Fifteen Minutes - Ghost

Words: 944

Time: 48 Minutes

oooBBBoooBBBoooBBBoooBBBoooBBB

The Eppes Craftsman house was closing in on its bicentennial, but it was so loving cared for, that there was very little sign of age damage.

The docent was happy to put in a little overtime for one last tourist. "I love old houses in general, and this one in particular," the dark haired girl explained. "It has such strong connections to my Alma Mater."

"Are you sure?" the handsome tourist asked. "I wouldn't want to put you out any."

"I'm sure," she said. "But we'll need to be quick," she cast a quick look at the sky. "The house is supposed to be haunted, you know."

"Really?" the tourist laughed. "You believe in ghosts, Miss?"

"I don't believe in ghosts," she replied demurely. "But then, I don't believe in color television, either, and see where that gets me."

The tourist laughed and ran his hair through his curly hair. "So, this is the house that Charles Edward Eppes used to live in?"

The docent nodded as they went upstairs. "Yes, he grew up here. After his mother died, he bought it from his father."

She admired the tourist's profile as looked in the bedrooms.

They walked into the solarium, and the tourist sighed. "This is wonderful. It feels just like home."

The docent's smile brought out her dimples. "You resemble Charlie Eppes," she said.

"Do I really?" the tourist asked, turning intelligent brown eyes in her direction.

"You really do," the docent asserted. "There are many family portraits downstairs. You can see for yourself." She frowned out the window. "Oh, dear. I didn't realize it was getting so late. We'll have to make this quick if we want to get to the garage before it's dark."

"You really are afraid of ghosts?" the tourist asked.

The docent shook her head. "We aren't supposed to turn the lights on, especially in the garage. Money saving measures."

"I understand," the tourist said. "Speaking of the garage, I would especially like to see…?"

The docent nodded wisely. "The Famous, or Infamous, Last Equation?" she asked.

"Indeed," the tourist said.

The walked quickly downstairs and out the back to the garage. The docent had some trouble with the lock. After fumbling with it for a few moments, she sighed with despair.

"Allow me," the tourist said gallantly. He was able to unlock the door on the first try.

"Oh, thank you," the docent said. "I've been having problems with that thing since forever."

The tourist smiled gallantly. "Then the lock really should be replaced," he said.

The chalkboards had been shellacked over, carefully preserving the last writings of the great mathematician in all their glory.

The tourist wandered from chalkboard to chalkboard, engrossed in the expressions and algorithms. He finally came to the last board. The one that held one of the New Millennial problems.

The story was that Charles Eppes had been on the verge of a major breakthrough in his Cognitive Emergence Theory when he had succumbed to a brain aneurysm. Most mathematicians agreed that it would take another fifty years for the rest of them to catch up enough to continue Eppes' work.

The tourist's contemplation was interrupted by a harsh voice. "Hey! What are you doing in here? This is private property?"

The tourist turned around with a jerk to find himself confronted by an annoyed looking, elderly man. "Eh? I'm sorry, but I was here on a tour." He held out his hand. "I'm Colin Penfield, by the way."

The grey haired man frowned. "Ian Eppes," he said. "I don't understand. The last tour of my grandfather's house ended at least two hours ago," he said.

"Oh, I know, Mr. Eppes," the tourist said apologetically. "But I happened across the docent as she was inspecting the house and she graciously gave me a quick, after hours tour."

The grandson of Charles Eppes frowned even more. "Which docent was that?" he asked.

The tourist was startled to realize that the attractive young woman was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, I hope I didn't get her into trouble," the tourist said.

"No, not even if I knew which one it was," Eppes said. He motioned for the tourist to precede him. He looked back into the garage as if expecting the mysterious docent to appear out of nowhere. "Oh, you dropped something," he said, picking it up.

He held the manila envelope out to Penfield, but the tourist shook his head. "Oh, no, that's not mine," he said.

Eppes frowned and looked inside. He pulled out several sheets of aging notebook paper. He drew his breath in with a hiss.

"What is it?" Penfield asked.

"It looks like another part of the solution to my grandfather's last equation," Eppes said. He looked around again. "I wonder where it came from?"

"Perhaps some stray breeze forced it from its hiding place," Penfield hypothesized.

"Maybe," Eppes said. "I'll be sure to give you credit for this discovery if it turns out to be what I think it is."

"I'm not looking for credit," Penfield said. "However, if there is one hidden answer, there may be more."

Eppes nodded and escorted the tourist back through the house. "Did you sign the guestbook?" he asked. "I want to make sure that I have your email address."

"Not yet," Penfield said. He looked at the pictures in the living room while he waited for Eppes to grab the guestbook. He was surprised to see that he did, indeed, bear a striking resemblance to Charles Edward Eppes.

However, he was not at all surprised to see that the late Amita Ramanujan Eppes bore an even stronger resemblance to vanishing docent.


	8. To Margaret from Alan, Ghost 2

To Margaret From Alan – 15 minute Challenge – Prompt Word - Ghost

Author's Notes: Sunday, June 17, we were discussing POV. Among other things we talked about, we discussed how Second Person is the least used voice, probably because it is the trickiest to write. So I thought I'd try my hand at it.

This was my second attempt to do the Ghost prompt in 15 minutes, I almost made it. :-D

Word Count: 262

Time: 16 Minutes

GhostghostGhostghost

Your spirit is with me in this house.

It's a little like when you and Charlie were at Princeton and I was alone in the house. The sense of family was always here because there were always things that held your essence. The piano you played before the boys were born, and apparently behind our backs after they came.

The solarium where Don and his friends would study or, at least, pretend to study.

The garage where Charlie actually did study.

The dining room where we would try to reconnect after too much time spent apart.

The kitchen where I taught myself how to cook because so desperately I wanted to impress you when you came home.

Sometimes I forget you're not coming back, Margaret.

No, I'm not going senile, although sometimes I wish I were. That might be easier. Then I wouldn't have to remember that I promised you that I would move on.

But then, I might forget you and how good things were when you were here. Even the worst of times couldn't rub out the memories of that.

I need to keep going. I need to move on. Not just for my happiness, but for the boys'. They need to see that there is life after love and that it's never too late to let someone new into your life.

But it's hard to be with another woman when I can still sense your ghost.

And yet, sometimes it's easier because I sense you are here. Because I can move on without feeling like I am abandoning you.


	9. Bad Day at Work for Decontamination

Title: Bad Day at Work

Author: Jelsemium

Challenge: 15 Minute Drabble - Decontamination

Word Count: 556

Traffic was literally at a standstill. Nothing was moving. Several people had even gotten out of their cars to crane their necks and try to get an idea of what the holdup was.

Of course, the carjacker couldn't get very far, either.

The thin youth stared around wildly. This was supposed to have been easy. He would just grabbed the car, haul ass, hand it over to the chop shop and have enough money for a little liquid joy.

The first part went as planned. He came up behind a woman who was fussing with her groceries, pushed her to the ground, grabbed the keys and screeched off in a fog of burned tires.

It was only after he'd gotten onto the street that he realized that there was a kid in the car.

Then the cops were after him.

Now he was trapped on the freeway. He couldn't even drive on the shoulder, as that was at a standstill, too.

So, he got out of the car to assess the situation.

"FBI! FREEZE!"

The situation was bad.

"He's going to run," David grumbled as the carjacker hesitated.

"Crap, and this is a new suit," Megan swore.

David was proven prophetic mere moments later when the carjacker bolted for the stopped cars.

"He knows we're not going to shoot with all these motorists here," Megan said. "Liz, take the girl back to her mother."

Neither Megan nor David bothered to look back as Liz began to comfort the crying child and to radio that the girl was safe.

The sprinted after the madly running carjacker until they got to a cleared area on the freeway. Neither of them had time to wonder why the area was clear, or what the white power on the pavement was.

"Stop! Now!" Megan shouted angrily.

The carjacker, realizing that the Feds now had a clear shot at him, actually showed enough commonsense to stop running.

"Aw, geez, man," a person in a bright yellow hazmat containment suit said. "You guys are really in trouble now."

Megan and David exchanged wide eyed looks.

"What?" David asked.

The hazmat guy gestured around them. "There's been a chemical spill," he explained. "All this white powder you see is pesticide."

"Am I gonna die?" the carjacker whimpered.

"Not from the pesticide," Megan assured him. "Either it's not fatal or I'm gonna shoot you myself."

"You guys are going to have to go through decontamination procedures," the hazmat guy said.

"What's that?" the carjacker whimpered.

"You'll have to strip so we can shower you off," the hazmat guy said.

"What happens to our clothing?" Megan asked.

"Sorry, ma'm," the hazmat guy said. "They're toast."

They three of them were led off to an area clear of the pesticide and hastily erected portable shower was set up.

David went first, stripping and stepping into shower while Megan watched the carjacker.

The carjacker went second, so David could keep an eye on him both in the decom shower and afterwards.

Megan went last. David, the Hazmat guy and even the carjacker eyed each other warily to make sure that nobody snuck a peek.

Later, David and Megan booked the carjacker while doing their best to ignore comments about their matching, bright orange outfits.

"Really, decontamination orange is a good look on you," Don assured them. He almost managed to keep a straight face, but not quite. "Much better than that Donna Karan thing you were wearing earlier."

Liz, Colby and David were able to restrain Megan from assaulting their boss, but only just.

Author's Notes: This was inspired by a story my sister told me. She works for a newspaper and one of her co-workers got too close to a decontamination team that was working on the freeway and she had to strip and be hosed off.


	10. Impeccable Taste

Impeccable Taste  
Challenge: 15 Minute Word Challenge - "Impeccable"  
Word Count: 498  
Time: 15 minutes to write, 2 minutes to proof read  
Author's Note: This is set between "Waste Not" and "Take Out"  
Author's Note 2: I spelled 'outmaneuvered' correctly on my first try. I'm so proud.

Author's Note 3: This was edited to insert the word "impeccable" into the actual story. That took an additional 3 minutes, in case anybody is counting.

Charlie Eppes had always been better with numbers than with people. Fortunately, this society made allowances for "absent-minded" geniuses when it came to human interactions.

Being a genius, however, Charlie knew he could push this latitude only so far without some repercussion.

Which is why his response to Amita's proposed outing was merely "Shopping?" rather than the "Hell, no!" that was his knee-jerk reaction to such an idea.

"Yes, shopping for clothes, to be specific," Amita informed him. "Millie's been talking about us attending fund-raisers…" she hesitated, and then added honestly."Well, you attending fund-raisers, as you're the Sean Connery of the Math Department."

Charlie rolled his eyes, hoping Amita would interpret that as a reaction to the Sean Connery idea.

"And you'll need a tux," Amita continued, either interpreting the gesture the way Charlie wanted her to or ignoring it all together.

"I can rent a tux," Charlie pointed out, worried about the implications of Amita wanting him to buy a tuxedo. Had Alan gotten to her? She wasn't thinking of marriage/kids yet, was she?

"Millie will be dragging you to as many of these functions as she can," Amita replied. "That means that it will be more efficient to have a tuxedo on hand than to constantly try to try to fit a trip to the rental shop between class and saving the world."

Charlie laughed.

"Can you imagine Don's reaction to 'Sorry, can't help you nab that serial killer, I have to be fitted for my rented tux'?"

"Okay," Charlie threw his hands up. "I know when I'm outmaneuvered."

"I'll help you pick one," Amita said. "That is, if you want my help."

"Of course," Charlie said. "You have impeccable taste in clothes."

Amita smiled. "Flattery will get you places," she said.

"Your bed would be great," Charlie thought, but was wise enough not to say.

They headed for the nearest mall and Charlie consoled himself with the thought that at least he could get lunch from this.

He was further consoled when Amita paused to look in the lingerie section of whatever department store she'd dragged him into.

The tuxedo choosing was easy as tuxedo styles never changed much. The fitting portion went by quickly, too, as Charlie's mind wandered during the whole thing.

Unlike usual, though, his mind didn't wander towards math. It wandered back to that lingerie section and the negligee that had caught Amita's eye. What little there was of it, that is.

They wandered back to the sleepwear section after the fitting and Charlie paused in the men's sleepwear section.

"Maybe I should get some new pajamas while I'm here," he said, looking at the sale bin. He picked up a package at random.

Amita shuddered. "No wonder those are on sale," she said. "They're so ugly that I couldn't let you wear them for long."

Charlie looked at the maroon and grey striped pajamas and thought about what Amita might do to get him out of them… and bought them.


	11. Used Books

Title: Used Books  
Challenge: 15 Minute Challenge - Used  
Word Count: 570  
Time: 21 minutes writing, 2 minutes editing, 2 minutes to look up William Wallace Denslow's name. (I lose track of time in used book stores, sue me. I'll share my dust bunny collection with you.)  
Author's Note: **Acres** of Books does exist. I do get lost almost everytime. I do find the most wonderful books there.

HR

It wasn't that Professor Lawrence Fleinhardt didn't appreciate new things. It was just that he preferred items that were old and/or rare.

So when he wanted a book, he preferred to buy a used copy, rather than something fresh off the press.

Larry also preferred the sensuous pleasure of handling books, rather than just picking a name from a list. Which is why he had also eschewed the vast inventories of ABE books and Alibris in favor of the more time consuming approach of visiting used book stores.

Thus, one Sunday afternoon, he found himself in Long Beach's famed **Acres** of Books looking for used poetry books.

His talent for direction was almost nonexistent, so it was inevitable that he would get lost. Of course, getting lost in **Acres** of Books was at least 33.34 percent of the charm of going. One never knew what treasures one might find that way.

After twining his way through the labyrinthine stacks, Larry found himself in the children's section. A few minutes of delightful perusal turned into several hours, and by the time he managed to find his way out of the book store, his shopping bags were much heavier.

The best find, however, was in the glass case at the checkout stand.

When he left the store, his wallet was rather lighter.

But not as much lighter as it would have been if he had been buying new books.

Yes, used books have a practical side, too.

Later that day…

That evening, over dinner, Larry presented one of his finds to his lady-love, Megan (who was not old, but she certainly was rare). They were seated on her couch, having just sent for Thai food to be delivered. (There were some advantages to modern technology, Larry mused. Like being able to go on a romantic date without leaving home.)

"The Wonderful Wizard of Oz?" Megan laughed.

"Yes, it's a 1907 version, illustrated by William Wallace Denslow," Larry said. "Quite a rare find." He beamed.

"I loved this book when I was a kid," Megan said. "I loved the Judy Garland version, too!"

Larry nodded, "As did I. The thirties produced many marvelous works."

Megan thumbed through the book as they waited. "I was always casting myself as Glinda the Good Witch," she said. "Except on bad days, when I really wanted to be the Wicked Witch of the West." She thought of certain criminals she had to deal with. "Yeah, an evil spell now and then would be handy in my line of work."

"Really?" Larry asked. "I would have cast you as Dorothy, myself."

The corner of Megan's eyes crinkled. "Why am I not surprised? So who do you cast as the Scarecrow without a brain? The Tin Man without a heart? And, of course, who is the Cowardly Lion?"

Larry pulled a face at her. "I am, as my students say, so NOT going there." He chuckled. "I do, however, cast myself as the Wizard."

Megan's eyebrows went up. "Why? Are you saying you're a humbug?"

Larry shook his head. "No, I'm saying that I want to help you find your way home." He looked at his hands in a sudden fit of shyness.

"You mean, find my way home to you?" Megan asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Indeed," Larry did not have time to say more, because Megan decided that was the perfect time to kiss him.


	12. Yoda was Wrong about Trying

Yoda Was Wrong

15 Minute Challenge – "Tried"

Author: Jelsemium

Word Count: 709

Time: 32 Minutes

* * *

Alan Eppes didn't get over to his elder son's apartment very much. He really should try to get over more often, assuming Don wanted him to come.

On the other hand, Don was usually over at the Craftsman. Which rendered the idea of visiting him rather moot.

"Dad!" Don's rare smile lit up the room. "Thanks for coming!"

"Always glad to help you out, Donnie," Alan said. "I help your brother enough."

He stepped into the apartment and saw that Don had already laid everything out in preparation for painting.

"What color did you decide on?" he asked.

"A lovely cerulean shade," Don said, kissing the tips of his fingers like some snooty maitre d'.

"Blue, you mean," Alan said.

"If you must be crass," Don said with a grin.

"Before I forget, I picked up these for you," Alan said. He hung up his jacket, dug out the hockey tickets and handed them over.

"Kings tickets? Wow." Don said, studying the tickets with undisguised glee. Then he blinked up at Alan and a puzzled frown crossed his face. "Wait, you're helping me. Shouldn't I be the one buying you a treat?"

Alan shrugged. "You're my son. I'm entitled to buy you treats whenever I feel like it."

"Okay," Don tucked the tickets into the pocket of his jacket which was hanging next to the door. "We should be finished in plenty of time to find a good parking place," he said. "A small advantage of a small apartment."

Alan nodded.

They got to work in companionable silence.

"I'm buying the food at the game, though," Don said.

"Too late," Alan said. "The package includes food vouchers."

Don shook his head. "Such largesse," he said. "I thank you for your kind generosity. I'll buy you lunch next week."

"You don't have to buy me a meal just because I bought you one," Alan said.

"You don't have to help me paint my apartment just because you help Charlie around the house," Don returned.

"Ah, just trying to be fair," Alan said.

Don looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he went back to painting.

Alan made a face and also turned his attention to painting. Somehow it was easier to talk about this while his hands were occupied.

"I know we… that _I_ was not always fair to you when you were growing up," he admitted.

Don made a non-committal noise.

"I tried, you know, but…" Alan sighed. "I know I wasn't successful. It's ironic that you always seemed to get the fuzzy end of the lollypop."

"Ironic? How so?" asked Don. He paused and looked at Alan.

"Yes, because you were… are… my favorite."

Don's eyebrows went up and he pointed at himself. "Me?" he mouthed.

"Yes," Alan said. "You were always easier for me to relate to. You're the one who's the chip off the old block. The athletic one. The popular one. The… well… the trouble prone one."

He sighed again. "I know a parent shouldn't have favorites, but we're only human. We do. And I know that a parent shouldn't play favorites. So I tried to _not_ favor you. Somehow that turned out into me favoring Charlie. Which was never my intention."

They painted in silence for a few moments.

"And in the end, I wound up doing neither of you a favor," Alan said sadly as he finished his wall.

Don was silent. Then he shook his head. "I know you tried your best," he said.

"I tried," Alan gave a short bark of laughter. "There is no try, there is only do or do not."

"Yoda was way off base on that one," Don said. "If there is no try, there is no do. Besides, if you had acted differently, then, maybe, Charlie and I would have turned out differently. And I know a lot of people who are alive today because of who and what we are."

"So you aren't mad at me?"

"I have my bad moments," Don admitted. "But mostly, I'm good with who I am. And with who we are."

"Good," Alan grinned. "You can buy the beer."

Don laughed. "Get through that line, I'll try, but guarantees, there are not."

Alan smiled wryly. "There never is."


	13. Sprained Relations for Tenacious

Sprained Relations

For the 15 Minute/One Word Challenge - Tenacious

Word Count: 546

Time: 21 minutes, not including web research on ankle sprains and proof reading.

Margaret Mann's ankle was killing her, but she hobbled along grimly. Her fluffy pink bunny slippers belying the gravity of the situation.. She was on a mission and it would take more than some overextended talo-fibular ligaments to stop her.

Tenaciously, she made her way up the stairs towards her goal, the front of city hall, where hearings regarding the condemnation of several old apartment buildings were being held.

If the buildings were condemned, then they would be torn down to make room for yet another stupid and underpopulated strip mall. If the buildings were not condemned, then the landlords would have to put a lot of money into renovating them.

Even though the case was not being handled by the firm that Margaret worked for, she was extremely interested in the outcome. Alan Eppes, the handsome young civil engineer who had yet to ask her on a date, had promised that he'd come up with a compromise that would make everybody happy.

"Well, actually, make everybody equally unhappy," he had amended. "But it should displace the minimum number of people while actually providing jobs that these people need."

"That I've got to see," Margaret said.

However, she'd been delayed when her heel had broken. The sudden change in velocity had snapped something in her ankle. Had snapped an anterior talo-fibular ligament, according to her doctor.

Now she was at the top of the stairs. Close enough, she decided.

She sat down and straightened her torn skirt. Then she unwound the ace bandage from her ankle and stuffed it into her purse, along with her bunny slippers.

She pulled on the surviving shoe and relaxed with the broken shoe in her hand. Less than a quarter of an hour later, people began streaming out of City Hall. Several paused to inquire if she was all right.

Smiling, she assured them that she was.

Until Alan came along.

"Margaret! What happened? Are you all right?" Alan asked anxiously.

It was not hard to conjure tears. In fact, she'd been battling them since she left the emergency room.

"I slipped," she said. She held up her broken shoe. "Stupid shoe. I missed the hearing."

"Don't worry about that," Alan said. "Let's get you to a doctor." He easily lifted her up into his arms.

Margaret relaxed and leaned her head against his shoulder as he explained how the plan was to remove the unsalvageable buildings in order to build a much smaller shopping complex.

"And you see where the jobs would come from?" he asked as he settled her on the front seat of his car.

Margaret nodded. "Yes, the stores will need employees. It would only make sense to hire the people who live next door."

"And the landlords would have fewer buildings that they need to upgrade," Alan said. He started his car. "Where to?" he asked.

Margaret gave him the address of her regular doctor.

"What about after?" Alan asked. "Where's your car?"

"It's in the shop," Margaret said. "That's why I took the bus."

"I'm sorry you had such a lousy day," Alan said. "Can I do anything to make you feel better? Perhaps a nice steak dinner?"

Margaret beamed at him. "Why, Alan, a steak dinner sounds like what the doctor should order!"


	14. Spattered Halloween

Spatter – 15 Minute Challenge: Halloween

Word Count: 309

Time: Lost track because I was watching "Bones"

Special Agent Ian Edgerton went down on one knee just outside of the yellow crime scene tape. With narrowed eyes, he studied the body that sprawled on the lawn in the quiet suburban neighborhood.

He turned slowly and followed an imaginary line from the shattered head to an elevated spot across the street.

"This puts the shooter right there," he said. "In the middle of the chimney."

"Damn," Larry said.

The physicist knelt next to the straw dummy and squinted across the street. "Not behind the chimney?"

Edgerton shook his head. "Too low," he said.

Larry looked at the Craftsman. "If we move the pseudo corpse closer to the house, the splatter won't be clearly visible from the sidewalk."

Edgerton nodded and scanned the neighborhood. "If you change the angle of the body by fifteen degrees, your sniper would be on that roof," he said, pointing to the house adjacent to the original sniper nest.

Larry rubbed his chin and nodded. "That should work," he said. "Now, if you were going to lay an ambush in the, well, bushes here, where would be the optimal spot?"

"Do you want the sniper to be seen?" Edgerton asked.

"Hm, maybe some glowing red eyes…" Larry trailed off.

The physicist and the sniper grinned at each other.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Edgerton asked.

"Laser pointer?" Larry asked.

Edgerton nodded. "We'll have to have someway of bringing it to the victim's attention," he said.

"Perhaps the victim should inform them of this fact?" Larry said.

"Then, instead of Mr. Boddy being shot from across the street…" Edgerton said.

"He'll be shot from the bushes, his shattered head lying near the driveway," Larry said.

"Where he can inform the next victim of his impending doom!" Edgerton said, grinning.

They picked up the straw dummy and rearranged him to suit their new plan.


	15. The Jury Summons

The Jury Summons

722 Words

20 Minutes

* * *

The State of California wants no excuses when it comes to reporting for jury duty. The front of all envelopes were stamped with JURY SUMMONS in block writing so there was no mistaking it for something else. The letters were in the reddish brown coloring reminiscent of dried blood.

The return address also featured the stern warning that "Jury Service is your civic responsibility" in the same rusty print.

When Alan Eppes picked the envelope off the floor, he heaved a sigh. He did believe in the American judicial system. He did believe that everybody had the right to a trial by his (or her) peers.

That didn't make him any happier at the summons. It was not only a disruption of his routine, it irked the anti-establishment part of his soul.

Before he could read past the rusty print, the door bell rang.

Alan jumped and dropped the mail, which promptly scattered across the hardwood floor and under the furniture.

He sighed again and opened the door.

The sight that met his eyes deserved yet another sigh, but Alan restrained himself.

"Yes, Mrs. Titchell?" he said.

"Mr. Eppes," sniffed his nosy neighbor. "I wondered if you still lived here, considering the way your son flaunts that trashy woman of his."

"Amita is a nice girl," Alan said mildly.

"She sleeps over quite often," snorted Mrs. Titchell.

"Do you really think they'd do something with me in the house?" Alan raised his eyebrows and tried to act as if he'd stop any immoral activities.

Mrs. Titchell blinked.

"Can I help you with something?" Alan prompted.

"Um, oh," Mrs. Titchell said, recovering herself. "That idiot mailman gave me some of your son's bills… Honestly, can't you get either of them to move out? My Sammy was living on his own since he was seventeen."

Alan accepted the envelopes with a few words of thanks, restraining himself from mentioning that Sammy had moved out of his mother's house and into juvenile hall.

He closed the door gently and dropped Don's bills into the fluted green bowl. Don had arranged for most of his bills to come to the Craftsman when he had first moved back from Albuquerque. It was convenient then, since Don didn't have a permanent address until several weeks after he had moved back to California.

It was still convenient, because Don didn't have to worry about bills getting lost in the shuffle. Besides, he was at the Craftsman at least as much as he was at his apartment.

Alan picked up the scattered mail and grumbled about his back under his breath. Now, he had to find that jury summons.

Alan slapped his hand over his face. What if the summons was for Charlie? Worse, what if it was one of those call in things? California had a system that was supposed to be more efficient than bringing in a bunch of people to sit around.

When you were selected to be a call in juror, you merely called in every day for a week after 1 PM or 5 PM to find out if you would be needed that day.

The trouble was, that made it hard to schedule your week. It also meant that you had to remember to call.

He winced as he remembered the time that Charlie had _forgotten_ to call in for his reporting time and had needed a last minute ride to the courthouse during rush hour. That had not been pretty.

At least the jury officials had not been angry when Charlie had shown up late. They had merely rescheduled his jury service.

Alan wasn't sure which would be more disruptive. Calling in every day or reminding Charlie every day that he had to call in every day… Alan chuckled suddenly. If the summons was for Charlie, he'd get Amita to nag him. She was almost as good as he was.

The jury summons was the last letter he picked up. When he flipped it around, he couldn't believe his eyes.

Minutes later, a beaming Alan Eppes was out the door and down the street. When the door was answered, Alan said, "Mrs. Titchell. The mailman left one of your letters at our house."

The look of horror on her face was enough to restore Alan's faith in the American judicial system.


	16. Takes the Cake

Takes the Cake

15 Minute Challenge – Chocolate Cake

Words: 287

Time: 15 minutes, writing by hand (while I was waiting for lunch) + 10 minutes to transcribe it.

"MOOOOOOMMMMMM!" Eight year old Don Eppes waxed indignant. Loudly.

"Donnie! Please use your indoor voice!" Margaret Mann Eppes sighed from the kitchen.

"Charlie's being gross!" Don announced, not quite as loudly, but in tones of absolute disgust.

Margaret hurried out from the kitchen. Children were surprisingly sensitive to the strangest things. A boy who would happily crawl through mud to dig up worms became ultra fastidious when dealing with a five year younger sibling.

She had to admit that this time Donnie had a point. Charlie face and hands were covered with the chocolate cake that was supposed to be his dessert.

"Not very appetizing," she said to Donnie… as soon as she finished howling with laughter. Charlie was so advanced in some ways, it was an actual relief when he acted his age. Even if it did make a mess.

"MOM! It's not funny! He's wasting chocolate!"

"I'm sorry, Donnie," Margaret managed.

"You are not," Donnie muttered as his mother darted from the room to grab a camera.

After a short hunt to locate the afore-mentioned camera, Margaret was recalled to the dining room by a howl from the other son.

She dashed back and found her elder son trying to scrape chocolate frosting off his brother's face with a knife.

"Donnie! No!" she scolded.

"But MOM! I was only trying to save the chocolate!"

"I know, dear," Margaret said. "Just… please use a spoon, better yet, a spatula." She snagged a rubber spatula from the kitchen and took several pictures as Don rescued the chocolate.

"Donnie, why didn't you just use your fingers?" she asked as Donnie licked the spatula.

Donnie gave her a disgusted look. "I don't wanna touch him! He's covered with COOTIES!"


	17. Don's Thanksgiving List

A List of Things to Be Thankful For  
Fifteen Minute Challenge: Thanksgiving  
Time: 18 minutes  
Word Count: 564

Author's Note: Angst

When Don Eppes was in middle school, one of the in class assignments that came around every November was to make a list of what he was grateful for.

It was a good thing that he was no longer in school, because he would flunk this assignment.

It was late November and Don Eppes could not thing of one damn thing to be thankful for. 

He just had lost two women who he loved. Leah Wexford had been murdered. The murderer had found her through his long ago indiscretion. If her address had not been in his file, then the killer would not have known where to look.

He lost Liz Warner because of his inability to open up to her. There were things about Leah that he still could not tell her, but that would not have driven her away if it had not been combined with so many other things that he had not told her.

He wondered why he kept doing this to himself.

He should bring it up with Bradford, he supposed. He had not been to see the psychologist in weeks. Maybe it was time to do so.

Don snorted. There was no 'maybe' about it. It was way past time to man up and face whatever it was inside him that continually made him pollute the lives of the people who loved him

And find out why he was so determined to self destruct.

And yet, he could not pick up the damn phone and make the call.

So he sat in the semi darkness of his apartment, sipping on a beer and staring at the shadows on the wall. He wondered, if there had been any light in the room, would he see the writing on that wall?

Suddenly the phone rang and he jumped. He let out a bark of laughter as the film noire atmosphere receded a trifle.

He wondered who would be calling his land line. Work would call his cell phone, as would Charlie or… Liz. He shook his head. Liz wouldn't be calling him ever again. At least, not a personal call.

His father might try the land line, he decided. Alan Eppes reserved the right to be old fashioned. As he mulled over the possible callers, he set the still half full bottle of beer on the counter and picked up the phone.

"Eppes," he said out of habit.

"Agent Eppes, this is Susan at Dr. Bradford's office. I am calling to confirm your appointment with us at 8 AM tomorrow morning."

"What?" Don blurted. "I don't remember making that appointment!"

Susan sounded very apologetic. "It was the only time that was available on such short notice," she said. "In fact, it's only available since we had a cancellation. Your father said that you were in the middle of a hot case and didn't have time to call, but that you needed the first available opening."

"Oh, right," Don said. "Thank you for the reminder, then, Susan. I'll see you tomorrow at eight."

"You're quite welcome, Agent Eppes," Susan said warmly.

Don hung up slowly and smiled in the darkness. He knew what he had to be thankful for. A family that cared enough to dare his wrath by butting in when they weren't asked to.

He passed the assignment. After all, a list of one item was still a list.


	18. Moving Out for Truce

Title: Moving Out

Prompt: 15 Minute Challenge – Truce, even if I never use the word in the story.

Word Count: 670

Time: 40 Minutes. I felt this story warranted going over the time limit.

* * *

Mornings were cold. 

Alan woke up in the pre-dawn darkness, heart racing and ready to jump up and check on his wife. Then memory would kick in and despair would follow.

Margaret was gone.

Her funeral had been two weeks ago. There was no reason to bolt out of bed anymore.

However, he couldn't fall back asleep. So he made his way downstairs and thought about breakfast.

He wasn't hungry. A clattering noise outside made him look out the window to see if there was a raccoon in the trash or something. He didn't see anything moving, so he guessed that the sound had come from down the street.

Then he saw a light on in the garage and immediately forgot the noise. Charlie was working on that damn P vs. NP problem again. Well, it was high time for Charlie to get out of the garage… and out of this house.

Alan charged out of the door, determined to confront his younger son and give him a piece of his mind.

Three steps out, he pulled himself up and took a deep breath. Margaret wouldn't want him to just toss the kid out on his ear.

_"This is hard on him, Alan." _

"It's hard on all of us."

"I know, but Charlie and I have been through a lot together. Don't forget that he was the one who helped me when I first became ill."

"That's not fair. It's not the same thing. I was still working full time," Alan had protested.

Margaret held up her hand. "I know, you did your best. Please.. he's doing his best. Please don't be angry at him for not being able to deal with this. He'll blame himself enough later." 

Alan took a deep breath. He'd been told not to make any drastic decisions, such as selling his house, for a year. That's what he'd tell Charlie. That he was planning to sell the house and Charlie needed to move.

Of course, he wouldn't throw him out on the street. Margaret wouldn't have wanted that. He'd help Charlie find a place during the next school break and help him move.

He nodded to himself. He would stay calm and reasonable, but firm, no matter what Charlie said.

Alan wasn't prepared for the site of Charlie sprawled on the floor surrounded by books. Belatedly, he realized that the clatter had come from the garage and not beyond it.

"Charlie, are you all right?"

Charlie looked up from his undignified position. "Um, oh, yeah." He pushed himself to a sitting position. "Um, I didn't wake you, did I?"

Alan checked to see if his son was bleeding, but didn't see any signs of injuries. Instead, he saw signs of insomnia, distress and grief.

He dropped his eyes. "No, I was just going to start breakfast… What happened?"

Charlie turned away. "I forgot that I'd stored my math journals in that suitcase," he said in a hoarse voice. "It broke open." He sighed. "Guess I'll need a new one."

Alan looked around at mess. "What are you doing?"

Charlie hunched his shoulders. "Um, packing, I guess." He shuffled his hand through the scattered papers. "I figure that you'd want me out… Larry's got a spare room… I wasn't much help…" His face clenched as he so obviously tried to block tears. "I should have been there for her."

The anger Alan had been using as a shield against grief faded. He walked over and laid a hand on Charlie's shoulders. "There's no hurry, Charlie."

Charlie looked at him anxiously. "You really don't mind me living here?"

Alan shook his head. "We get along well enough," he said. "Besides, they advise waiting a year before making any drastic moves."

Charlie blinked up at him. "Um, how do they define 'drastic move'" He blinked again. "And who are 'they', anyhow?"

Alan sighed. "No clue," he admitted. He gave Charlie a hand up. "Come on, we have a year to track 'em down and get them to explain."


	19. Sparkles for Claudia

Title: Sparkles for Claudia

Rating: T

Prompt: Sparkling

Time: 14 Minutes

Word Count: 410

* * *

There were some days when Dr. Claudia Gomez wished that she had dropped out of medical school in favor of being an actress, or a waitress, or anything that didn't deal with dead bodies all day.

This was one of those days. Work was piling up and Claudia wanted it to stop. Preferably before Christmas.

Unfortunately, holidays not only brought out the best in people, but the worst. Which is why everybody was pulling double shifts.

That, in turn, meant that her chances to get together with Special Agent David Sinclair were few and far between. In fact, for the past two weeks, they'd been reduced to emails and the occasional note left in each other's inbox.

A truly sad state of affairs considering that they were living together.

Claudia finished up her last autopsy of the day, night, whatever, and was hoping to get home while David was still awake.

Her wish was granted, but not in a way she appreciated. At least, she assumed that David was awake, as he was not at home. She sighed and turned on the lights in the kitchen. Maybe if she had some dinner, breakfast, whatever, David would appear before she finished.

She was brought up short by the sight of a box wrapped in sparkly gold paper on the kitchen table. The tag was in David's handwriting and Claudia grinned when she read. "[IThis is not your Christmas present. It's just an appetizer. Bon appetite! – D.[/I"

Claudia hesitated for the barest of moments, wondering if she should wait until David was there. Then she decided that David had intended for her to open it right away.

Besides, she deserved this. She ripped into the wrapping with manic glee and beamed around the empty room when she uncovered the jewelry box. It was too long to be a ring, maybe a necklace?

When she opened the box she frowned. The delicate chain was too short to be a necklace, but too long to be a bracelet. She shook her head. She really must be tired to not recognize an ankle bracelet when she saw one. She held it up to admire the sparkling gold and topaz chain. Then she squinted.

There were gold letters interspersed among the topazes. She read the message and laughed as she realized what it was that David wanted.

It was a common enough phrase, but on her ankle there was a whole new meaning to "Heavens Above!"


	20. April Dinner

Dinner at the Eppes

Word Count: 391

Time: 18 Minutes

Alan Eppes checked the meat thermometer and grinned when he realized that the meat was medium rare. He placed them on a platter and put aluminum foil over it to hold in the heat.

The potatoes were perfect. The salad was crisp and green. A quick peek into the refrigerator showed the chocolate mousse was jelling perfectly.

"Well, what's the occasion?" Don asked.

Alan smirked. "It's a good day, Donnie. I haven't felt this good in years."

"Oh?" Charlie said. "What put you in this good mood, oh father of mine?"

"Grab the garlic bread, will you Charlie?" Alan said, sidestepping the question. "Donnie, set the table. I assume that a great detective can either remember where the dishes are kept of find them."

Don and Charlie exchanged shrugs, and then carried out their assigned tasks with alacrity. Not only were they curious, but the smell of the steak, potatoes, fresh bread, and cold beer had their stomachs rumbling.

"Well, so what's the occasion?" Don probed.

"I've got good news," Alan said.

"Namely?" Charlie asked, lovely food forgotten.

"I have selected a condo to move into," Alan said.

"You're moving?" Charlie asked. Dismay crossed his mobile face.

"Yes, Charlie," Alan said. "We're all adults. You and I keep interfering with each other's lives."

Charlie looked hurt.

"Don't take it that way," Alan said. "You know you don't like me walking in on you and Amita. And I don't like you walking in on me and Millie…"

"Right," Charlie said glumly.

"I don't think Charlie liked that, either," Don laughed.

"Besides, this house is big, but it really isn't suitable for four adults…"

Charlie's eyes went wide.

"You and Millie are … moving … in … together?"

Alan shook his head. "No, it's time you learned the truth."

Don and Charlie exchanged worried looks.

"I'm moving in with… my boyfriend."

Jaws dropped. Eyes bugged.

Alan couldn't keep a straight face. "April Fool!"

Don shook his head. "That was nasty!" he complained.

Charlie clutched his chest. "Geez, Dad, give me a heart attack why don't you?"

"Next year, son," Alan teased.

Don's eyes narrowed. "You realize what I will have to do if you give Charlie a heart attack, don't you?"

Alan frowned. "What?" he asked.

"I'd be forced to make a cardiac arrest."

Charlie and Alan groaned and showered him with salad.

A/N: Did I mention the prompt was "April Fool's"?


	21. No Guts, No Glory, No Fooling

Title: No Guts, No Glory, No Fooling

Past Prompt: 33 - Uncertainty

Rating: K+

So happy with this - exactly 300 words in exactly 15 minutes… SCORE!

Characters: Robin Brooks, Don Eppes

Warnings: Possibly for tomorrow's episode? Hee hee

Feedback: Feed the writer, feed the koi!

"Laborers sweat, gentlemen perspire and ladies glow" went the saying.

Well, Robin Brooks was obviously no lady because she was sweating buckets. She stared at the ring in her hand as if she could see the answer to life, the universe and everything in its gleaming surface.

At least, the answer to the question that she wanted to ask tonight.

She had prepared to ask this with the same intensity that was usually reserved for major cases and invasions of Europe. She made reservations. She planned an escape route. She'd enlisted the aid of the restaurant.

She thought that she'd had a built-in safety net. However, people didn't always react as planned.

She could well lose it all.

But, if her gamble paid off, her rewards would be more than she could possibly imagine right now. And she'd been imagining quite a bit.

That night, she smiled at Don Eppes across the dinner table. She gave the agreed upon signal to the waiter and two champagne flutes appeared at the table.

"Well," Don said, raising one eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"

"Call it a celebration of the women's liberation movement," Robin said.

"Specifically?" Don prompted.

"The right of a woman to ask the man she loves to marry her."

Don gaped.

Robin raised her flute.

Automatically, Don returned the salute, then he noticed the ring in the bottom of the glass.

He stared mesmerized as the gold ring sparkled in his champagne. Then he remembered the date. "Is this an April Fool's joke?" he asked.

"It depends," Robin said demurely. "If you say 'yes', then I'm serious."

"But if I say 'no'?"

"Then it's April Fool!"

Don grinned. "According to Professor Fleinhardt, you can't play April Fool's jokes after noon." He clinked his glass against hers. "Happy April 2nd, Mrs. Eppes."


End file.
